“Well, den, whut time is it?” “Whut is time to you?” answered the man in the street. “You ain’t fixin’ to go nowheres, is you?” § 171 A Diagnosis Made Offhand Puffed with pride, a colored man returned to his native town in North Carolina after a season spent with a traveling circus. He was recounting his experiences in the great world at large to a fellow Afro-American. “I started out,” he said, “ez a roustabout, but de boss man w’ich owned de show he right away seen dat I had merits above my station an’ he permoted me to be a lion tamer. So dat’s whut I is now—a reg’lar perfessional lion tamer.” “Is dat so?” said his townsman. “Tell me, boy, how does you go ’bout bein’ a lion tamer?” “It’s ver’ simple,” said the returned one. “All you got to have is bravery an’ de dauntless eye. Fust you picks out yore lion—de best way is to pick out de fiercest one. Den you walks up to de cage whar he is wid a club in yore hand an’ open de do’ and jump inside an’ slam de do’ shut behind you. Natchelly, de lion rare hisse’f up on his hind laigs an’ come at you wid his mouth open an’ his teeth all showin’. You waits till he’s right clost up to you an’ den you hauls off an’ you busts him acrost de nose wid yore club. Den you backs him up into a corner an’ you beats him some mo’ till he ’knowledges you fur his master. Den, w’en he’s plum’ cowed down, you grabs him by de jaws an’ twists his mouth open an’ sticks yore head down his throat an’ after dat you meks him jump th’ough a hoop an’ lay at yore feet an’ sit up an’ beg fur raw meat an’ teach him a few more tricks such as dem. Tha’s being a lion tamer.” “Huh, nigger,” grunted his audience, “you ain’t no lion tamer—you’ a lyin’ scoundrel!” § 172 Remodeling the Calendar August Winestopper ran a family liquor store in the day when there were family liquor stores. Mr. Winestopper’s knowledge of English was somewhat circumscribed but, as events were to prove, his business sagacity was profound. In the early part of the summer business, for some reason or other, fell off considerably. While Mr. Winestopper, was canvassing in his own mind the possible causes for this shrinkage in normal neighborhood consumption of wet goods other discomfiting things began to occur. The agent for the owner of the premises waited upon him and told him that, beginning the following month, the rent would be advanced $600 per annum. The two barkeepers notified him that the barkeepers’ union had passed a rule calling for an increase in the wage scale. He got a summons for an alleged violation of the Sunday closing law and was confronted by the prospect that, if found guilty, he would pay a heavy fine. The brewery sent him word that the price of beer shortly would go up. Mr. Winestopper considered the situation in all of its various and disturbing phases. Then he took a piece of chalk and on the mirror behind the bar he wrote, where all might read, the following ultimatum: